Raghavendra

The following is from my internship posting in surgery at a government hospital in India. It happens to be true.

It began. Busy busy busy unit. Before though. I inquired with the outgoer. Any burns? Burns dressings were the hope-not-in-my-times. They required much attention. Daily. With little progress usually. In a non-conducive environment for healing. Yes said she. One burn. Details. Woman fell on a stove. Whole back. Down to her thighs. But then she must be lying prone all day I commented rather foolishly. Of course said she with a tolerant expression on her face. Left.

I made the journey. Said hello. When someone lies prone. You say howdy from the head of the bed rather than the foot-end. It probably was a good thing here. It helped in some unknown way. Bandaging burns invited the use of what is known as vaseline dressing. Being in a resource-poor (resource-unpredictable actually - sometimes very rarely we were inundated with all kinds of hospital goodies) setting resulted in the vaseline and the dressing to be separate which required the intern (read me) to 'prepare' the vaseline dressing and then apply it on the burned areas. I pondered all this while I was still greeting her for the first time when I noticed what seemed to be a ball of energy on the other side of the bed. It was a boy who seemed to be armed with the most infectious smile I had seen in a while. 'Pudar enchina?' (thus betraying 50% of my Tulu vocabulary). 'Raghavendra' he said and collapsed in his own shyness. The collar of his once-white shirt seemed to bury most of his face quite effectively while his eyes still looked at me with curiosity. Being a brand-new uncle I wondered what my own nephew would come to look like at Raghavendra's age. Mulling it over I left without bothering to tell Raghavendra my own name or know his place in this big, lonely hospital. I did not ask him why he wasn't in school or splashing with his mates in puddles. Epitome of good manners was I. Sensitivity was my middle name.

Thus began a six-weeker. Experience par indelible. Raghavendra was her son. He was 9. He was her caretaker. The husband showed up once in the 42 days. She could not sit. She could not stand. She could only lie. Prone.

The plan was to finish rounds with the bosses. Then do minor things. Quickly. Then finish semi-major things. Also quickly. Then do the burns dressing. Leave the hospital. Grab some food. Study books containing multiple-choice questions so as to be in with a chance of obtaining a post-graduation seat. So that I could further my desires in the practice of medicine. Noble. My father would have disowned me. But things did not quite work out that way.

When I would go to her. Raghavendra would be there. Brimming with enthusiasm. He was my little helper. His erstwhile shyness had been packed and sent off to an undisclosed location. A chatterbox was unveiled. He would go on and on about anything under the sun. He talked about himself. He talked about me. When Sush joined us, he talked about her. He was non-stop. I started to believe that his smile had been surgically placed there. Much like a well-known villain of the flying-mammal-emulating-fictitious-city-protecting-hero of our times. He was incredible.

I changed my plan. Had to. Did rounds in the morning and reclassified my tasks. It was simple now. There were three categories. Bosses' orders, Burns dressing and others. Easy easy. Bosses' orders were done stat. No issues there. Others required some juggling and were fitted in before lunch. The evening was for her and Raghavendra. The whole of it. I told her this. She was a little apprehensive. Rightfully so. Told Raghavendra. He was thrilled to bits. As usual.

So there we were. She, Raghavendra and me. And Sush of course who joined us on many many occasions. I took off my watch just before I gloved each time. That watch had been with me for eight years. Never stopped. Never any trouble. Raghavendra liked it. He would wear it often when I dressed the wounds. And so the evening dressing became a ritual. The nurses who were suspicious at first got used to it. Inch-by-painful-inch the wounds would heal. Only to be infected again in a few days. Frustration. Helplessness. But we carried on. Raghavendra of course leading the way regaling us with his jokes and stories. He laughed loudest when someone tried to say something funny. More and more he grew fond of the watch.

I was down to my last week. Rounds. One of the bosses. Let's graft. My heart jumped with joy. New skin. Raghavendra looked at me. Pump-fist from me. He laughed. That evening. We discussed the surgery. Just the three of us. She was not too keen. I tried to explain. In my best vernac. Raghavendra. He did. Couple of sentences. Yes. Let's do it she said. That evening was to be my last time dressing her. My last time with Raghavendra. I was moving on. My intern log book said that I needed to look at some ears, noses and throats. I left without my watch.

Never had I seen the human spirit so intact. He was only 9.




Acknowledgments: Sush. For putting up with my poor attempts at humor during those days.

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